


Uncle Murdoc's Story Time

by ElapsedSpiral



Category: Gorillaz
Genre: M/M, Murdoc POV, Murdoc being crass i.e. being Murdoc, Swearing, very stupid
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-07
Updated: 2017-05-07
Packaged: 2018-10-28 22:03:54
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,374
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10840362
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ElapsedSpiral/pseuds/ElapsedSpiral
Summary: Noone tells a story quite like Uncle Murdoc - tonight's topic: how Mr 2-D came to have a hickey on the cover of Demon Days. First person POV, completely silly and plenty of language. Written back in 2010, tweaked in 2017.





	Uncle Murdoc's Story Time

There's plenty of questions in this life that you'll never know the answers to. Why am I here? What is the purpose of all this? Why do people spend so long wondering whether a Jaffa Cake is a cake or a biscuit instead of just eating the whole bloody packet? Why does 2-D have a hickey on the cover of Demon Days?

Ah, well, I might have some inside information there – just call me a veritable hub of gossip and celebrity bilge. All the news that's fit to be sued over. So you want the answer? Well, perhaps that's for me to know, you to ask me about, me to tell you I won't say and for you to bugger off, muttering under your breath that I was a bit of a prat to bring it up if I wasn't going to explain.

Fine! Fine! You raise a valid point, dear reader. So here it is: a dip into the paddling pool of pop history. Sit back, eat a jaffa cake, don't think about whether it's a cake or a biscuit (...I think it's a cake. Otherwise the name doesn't make any sense, does it? I'll have to look into that) and, most importantly of all: enjoy.

Oh and make sure you don't leave any suspect stains on the furniture, there's a good chap.

If I was compiling a list of unsexy places, recording studios would rank pretty high. That's not to say I haven't had sex in any, I'm just saying I wouldn't go out of my way to experience it, faithful reader. You're not missing out on much. I think I'd wedge it firmly between having a quickie in a lift (Co-Op lift in the '90s was a particularly bad idea – the otis didn't seem to appreciate it much, but maybe he just thought it was rude that he wasn't asked if he fancied a go) and having a sneaky shag in a bouncy castle (sounds fun, it's not).

It really stems from the fact that, visually, aurally and spiritually, recording studios have a lot in common with some sort of padded cell for the more psychologically challenged among us. It's the spongy walls, wailing and total cobblers everyone is talking that does it. Three o'clock in the morning and it "needs more cowbell". Chances are on a real "hardcore" sesh you'll be transported from one padded cell to another, hee hee har har, you'll have gone more than a little loopy.

Anyway, yeah. Think that sets the scene (don't say I don't spoil you, more-than-likely-Russel – p.s. if you are reading this Russ – PISS OFF! I don't read your personal correspondence with that woman with the clever trick involving the contents of a fruit bowl, do I? Also, her number would be much appreciated, cheers mate). You'll excuse me if I'm an "all killer, no filler" sort of story-teller. Just get this sorted in your brain-tank: me, in a chair, looking bored out of my skull. Me, sat at a mixing desk, twirling that one little gain knob that doesn't seem to be connected to anything whilst looking a little groggy. Not my usual gorgeous self, but more like I'did been slapped around the face with an old fish. Tired, sweaty, smelly, not at all drunk. It was a horrible, horrible time for uncle Murdoc, children.

So, yeah, there we are. Sat there, in the proverbial driver's seat with my eyes half closed, mouth open in a zombie groan listening to some berk singing "Oh, good grief".

For the less astute amongst you, that's Mr 2-D of course. And, er, yeah I suppose I ought to furnish you with a few more details. "Oh Good Grief" was an early version of "O Green World". We're not sure how that lyric came about or who's to blame for it. Perhaps me and Blue Hair were on a being British binge or something, I really couldn't tell you. Whatever the case, there was an undeniable vibe that we had a particularly steaming pile of musical shite on our hands. Worse still, we hadn't gotten the intro down yet. Y'know the bit I mean: I let out a goliath, biblical, old-testament-ical bass line something like "Duh, der duh, der duh duh duh _duh":_  that bit. We didn't have it yet and naturally things sounded like the aural equivalent of lettuce in a Boots sandwich: soggy, limp and pretty crap as far as being a decent pop song goes.

"Oh good grief," the studio wailed again and I fiddled with my knob (the console one, don't get ahead of yourself, reader), "oh good grief".

"Oh pissing good grief," I muttered in agreement. Really, that song was terrible. All evidence of it, bar Mr 2-D, has been burned.

Well, by some truly bizarre stroke of fate, a man who has been known to miss minor details like the fact that he's forgotten to put on shoes actually noticed me muttering that through the glass. He gestured and I turned the channel on so we could hear each other, me in the studio, him in the booth.

"Wot's wrong wiv u thin ey-"

Oh, you know what, fuck it. He has a stupid accent but I'm not writing it. Fill in the gaps for yourself everyone. Get creative, make him Welsh or Jamaican if you want, you have my blessing.

"What's wrong with you then? Sounded alright on my end," he said with what I suppose a writer would call a petulant air (not just a pretty face ladies, there's a brain in here as well, oh yes - it's the complete package with me), "what'm I doing that you don't like?"

I remember tilting back in my chair and shrugging at the ceiling and the dodgy rust coloured stain up there.

"Nothing, nothing, s'alright."

"S'what I thought!" he said, with an extra dollop of petulance.

"Just a bit shit," I conceded, "slight issue with it being utter shite."

The bloke's shoulders slumped so much he would have made a servicable traffic cone.

"So what am I supposed to do about that, exactly?" he said, doing that one eyed squint he does sometimes, like he's some hard man. I can assure you he isn't, his mum still buys his underwear for him and pops them in the post to Kong, "am I supposed to rewrite it as well as sing it?"

"Oh for-" in despair I got up and shoved open the adjoining door. At his look of surprise I gave him a pointed look, grabbed my bass, slung it on, struck a pose - a sweaty, tired, sober pose so it's unlikely to have been one of my classics – and started messing about.

"You," I barked, getting in touch with my inner lieutenant, "keyboard. Startling tickling."

"What?"

"Ivories. Tickle- oh fucking h- just plaaay the keeeeyboard," I snapped. By this point I already had "duh, der duh" so we were cooking on gas alright. 2-D on the other hand had started poncing around, plonking the keys with those gigantic fingers of his with less success. Seriously though, have you seen that bloke's hands? Get him to hold them palm up and you've got two dinner plates right there. Bit of a freak if you ask me.

Anyway, like a really classy author I'm going to cleverly sneak in a theme I introduced earlier. I'm talented like that. I once won a school prize for a dirty limerick I carved into a desk lid so it doesn't come as a shock of course. The theme, naturally, is that of recording studios being hell holes and very much like confinement cells. I can't stress that point strongly enough so I'm going repeat myself to make sure there's no confusion: they're hell holes. Smell a bit too.

When it's the crack of dawn and you're stood in one full well knowing you're going to be there for at the very least a few hours longer, it's particularly shitty, believe me. There's no sound other than you and whoever else is there breathing, the amps coughing (oh I'm coming over all Tom Waits). The air is dead and dusty and hanging there, there's no natural light. It is calculated to split your mind in two like a nutcracker. And, after a few more minutes of faffing around that's what happened with us two.

Luckily going briefly insane worked wonders, as it so often does in the music industry. 2-D, in a classic show of lead singer hissy-fittery, slammed his hand down on the keyboard and made a resounding...

Well.

This is where stories are a bit shit. Shame I can't attach a sound file. It was sort of a KLEEEEE but more angry, a bit KRAAAAEEE but not so sharp. Look, okay, better still, listen to the intro of O Green World, or watch Psycho. I'm trying my damnedest to recreate the sound of getting stabbed in a shower. EEE KREEE EEE KREEEE – sort of. Well, whatever 2-D decided to slap worked. Our heads both shot up.

Now, again, don't get carried away, readers. Use a bit of logic: that can't be the end of the story because 2-D is hickey-less and I haven't gotten a blow job yet-AH CRAP. Sorry, gave the game away. But yes I do. And I clearly haven't yet, so, let's move swiftly onto that lovely finale.

What actually happened was this: we both looked up and looked even more enraged at what was the musical equivalent of getting hit in the head with the business end of a claw hammer. I kept playing my bass line over and again, although I made a point of walking over to the amp and kicking the distortion knob so it started to sound like a Rottweiler was trapped in the speaker. Meaty, if you get me.

We kept playing our riffs, 2-D trying to rattle any loose screws right out my head and me trying to blow away the cobwebs in his, until I was stood as near as I could be to the man without actually standing on the keyboard.

Then, well, s'a bit of a blur. Musical foreplay will do that to you. There was something of a silent exchange: 2-D might look as expressive as a piece of plyboard but you can make out emotions in his eyes if you know him well enough and the silent exchange went something along the lines of:

"Phwoar."  
"Well well."  
"How about it?""  
"Yeah go on then."

And the next thing you know the lucky sod had his arms full of Stoke-on-Trent's finest son and said son's mouth getting to work on his neck. The keyboard made matters bloody difficult, we must have been barking and more than a little horny not to have side stepped the thing. Cut right into the family jewels, which was particularly unpleasant as you can imagine. Anyway, there I was giving a leech a run for its money and D was doing his best impression of a Mills and Boon heroine. Dunno how long it'd have gone on for like that, possibly indefinitely or until loss of feeling in the crotch reached crucial levels, but whatever the case D sped matters along by apparently clutching and fumbling at the keyboard keys for support.

"Oh!" he said, and here my lips detached, I pulled back and so retained my bits and bobs, "that's it!"

And, well kiddies, y'know what? It was. "It" being that little odd tinkly bit between the bits that sound like we're trying to murder you via the airwaves. O Green World: sorted. Job's a good un.

So we played it through quickly (oh, yeah, forgot to mention didn't I: slung my bass over my shoulder before I decided to get off with my singer. Naturally), it sounded as beastly as it does to this day and that was that. Another fine, crowning moment for Gorillaz. Another addition to the barricade against the incoming tidal wave of mindless shit from the hit factories.

2-D gave me his toothy/toothless grin. I gave him a grudging look of, well, not admiration but an expression you might give a puppy when it surprises you by not pissing on a new carpet and we both de-instrumented and wandered into the recording studio to sprawl out on a couple of plush leather chairs.

"There. Perfect," the Southern pansy said.

I gave a satisfied, smug, punchable sort of grin but it caught halfway through.

"Wait. What about "Oh good grief"?"

Now, I will hand this much to D – having a broken head means he comes up with some handy and totally arthouse sounding bollocks at times. He sat there for a moment, head tilted to one side then, with the most natural of shrugs, said "O Green World."

Who was I to question it? Hand scratching my belly button, I nodded.

"Sure, why not?"

We sank back into our chairs with a contented sighed for a moment before I frowned again and D began to hunch up in his chair. Out of the corner of my eye I saw him touch his neck, which, naturally, was a very nice shade of reddish purple.

"'Bout that," I piped up, "I'm still horny - fancy a quickie?"

And that, kiddies, is how uncle Murdoc got his blow job. Aw, top notch. A happy ending to a happy story with a moral tucked in there somewhere, no doubt.

Oh - but hang on. Was that the point of me telling this story? I can't rightly recall. Wasn't there something to do with Jaffa Cakes at the beginning? Oh, I dunno. The hour is late, I am as pissed as a fart and you just got a story about me getting off. Sounds like a result.

So, nothing else for it, is there, but to say: "the end".

Scrawled on the bottom of the typewritten copy:

" _What the fuck Muds? Is this part of you're_ _memor (crossed out), memory (crossed out), autobograph (crossed out),_ _book you're writing? Take that out or I'm fucking_ _sewing_ _(crossed out) suing the backside offa you._

_P.S. Dont suppose you've written anything about that night in the Winnybago with the tequila and the sombreros, have you?"_


End file.
